


All The Steps We Take

by masterofmidgets



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:53:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterofmidgets/pseuds/masterofmidgets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last five years matter less than the last three days.</p><p>[Wrath of Khan fic, references canon torture/mind-control]</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Steps We Take

It’s been five years, but when he walks onto the bridge Chekov looks just as he did the last time Sulu saw him. Just as tall. Just as handsome. Just as close to falling to pieces, although someone who didn’t know him as well as Sulu once had wouldn’t recognize the tightness about his eyes and the minute trembling of his hands on the weapons controls for what it is. But he’s seen Chekov break before. He’s even been the reason for it. And no matter how steady Chekov’s  voice is when he asks the captain to let him join the crew he’s clearly holding himself together with gum and shoestrings and sheer stubbornness.

Sulu half rises out of his seat at the helm before he remembers that he has five years and a million miles worth of reasons not to rush to Chekov’s side like he used to after away missions went bad, hiding behind a professional need to check a fellow crewmember for injuries and knowing he wasn’t fooling anyone. But they aren’t crewmembers anymore, and it isn’t his job to make sure Chekov hasn’t skinned his knees or hit his head or gotten poisoned by the high priestess of Arnlok to be her love slave anymore.

And anyway Chekov is holding himself together, if only just, and they have more important things to worry about right now. Like keeping his ship flying even though the navigation systems are all shot to hell.  And finding the power somewhere to fire off a last volley of photon blasts, if it comes to that. And seeing Khan die in a pathetic bloody smear, because Sulu wants to make him pay for the shattered look in Chekov’s eyes.

There is a moment when he is certain they won’t escape the detonation of the Genesis Project, just enough time for blinding fear and the bone-deep pang of regret to sink in. But then there is an after, when his heart is still trying to beat its way out of his chest and Khan and his ship are coalescing into stone and sea and verdant green before their eyes, and when he turns away from his station, hands striped red and aching where he clutched the controls so tightly, Chekov is gone. Not at his station, not on the bridge, just gone, and even now Sulu knows better than to think he might have the sense to get himself to Sickbay, where he belongs.

The bridge is chaos, especially when the comm goes off and the captain bolts to engineering with his heart in his eyes. It will be hours before they need him, if they don’t give the helm to one of the cadets now that the danger is past, and in the confusion it is easy for Sulu to slip out. He’s the only person likely to know or care where Chekov is, he tells himself, and there’s still a chance he might go into shock, or suffer the aftereffects of whatever it is that Khan did to him. He shouldn’t be alone for that, even if Sulu probably isn’t the person he would choose to have with him now.

Even after five years, some habits are too hard to shake.

Like Chekov, the botany lab on the Enterprise has changed very little in the five years since he has seen it.  Sure, some of the plants have been moved, one of the new lab techs has plastered the corner with pin-up posters from _12 Months on Orion_ , and the psychic fern from Betazed he coaxed along for several years has finally withered and died. But the door opens with the same burst of damp, fragrant air in his face, and when it closes behind him it shuts out the cacophony of activity and alarms ringing in the rest of the ship, leaving the lab as still and tranquil as ever.

At first glance the lab appears empty, but when he examines the room more closely the second time, there are a pair of black boots protruding from beneath one of the shrubs in the back corner. When Sulu comes around the high tables walling off that corner, Chekov is sitting on the floor hugging his knees to his chest. There are leafy branches brushing his shoulders and his hair, and the expression on his face when he sees Sulu is equal parts relief and chagrin.

“I thought you might be here,” Sulu says, shifting uncomfortably. “I remember how often you used to come here, before…”

Chekov doesn’t quite meet his eyes when he says, “I like the botany labs. They don’t have them on the _Reliant_ , not like this.”

It’s a pointed reminder of what they no longer have, and the silence that follows it is stiff and awkward. Sulu scuffs his feet against the floor, doesn’t know what to do with his hands, can’t make up his mind to cross the rest of the distance between them or turn and leave like the coward he is. When Chekov rakes a hand through his hair and exhales with an exaggerated huff, it startles Sulu enough to make him jump.

“Look at me,” Chekov says, mouth twisting in a wry, bitter smile. “A Starfleet commander, first officer of a ship, and I am hiding like a farm boy frightened of a thunderstorm. Where is all my Russian courage when I need it, eh?” He stops smiling, slowly, like water draining from a broken glass, but he doesn’t stop shaking.

Sulu doesn’t think, just takes a step, then another, drops to his knees and wraps his arms around Chekov, pulling him close. He can feel Chekov go rigid as he embraces him, but Sulu doesn’t let go, only relaxing his grip slightly when Chekov makes a low, broken sound in the back of his throat and buries his face in Sulu’s shoulder.

He rubs Chekov’s back as he cries, slow reassuring circles, because there’s little enough he can do until this fit plays itself out, and under his breath he murmurs a steady litany of _Pasha, Pasha, oh Pachenka_ , just loud enough that Chekov will know who it is here with him now. 

He doesn’t know how long it is before he feels the trembling under his palms cease and the jerky sobs subside into miserable sniffles. When Chekov lifts his head from Sulu’s shoulder his eyes are red and his nose is streaming, and Sulu can’t resist raising a hand to stroke his thumb over the thin bruised-looking skin under Chekov’s eyes. Chekov jerks away from the contact, and scowls at him.

“I’m sorry,” Sulu says, gently. “I didn’t think.”

“He put something in me,” Chekov says, voice hoarse from crying, and Sulu knows immediately he is speaking of Khan. “A horrible creature. He held me down and let it crawl inside me, and then I had to do everything he said.”

Khan may be in a thousand pieces spread across the star system right now, but if he could, Sulu would gather them all together, and stomp on them, and set them on fire. “It’s not your fault. It’s _not_.”

“I betrayed the Regula station. I betrayed the Enterprise. I almost killed the Captain!” Chekov’s hand on his shoulder tightens painfully.

“Khan made you do those things. You couldn’t help it. He would have killed you.” Sulu squeezes Chekov’s shoulder back, willing him to believe his words.

“I thought he would. But I fought him anyway. I couldn’t just give in.” Chekov tips his head back and laughs, and it’s almost the boyish laugh Sulu remembers, a little darker and a little more bitter, but the man he knew is still there.  “I told myself that Peter the Great wouldn’t surrender to a madman, and so as a noble Russian I could not. And then I told myself that if I let Khan kill me, I would not come back to punch you in the face.”

“Pavel– ”

“And then I told myself that if Khan killed me, I would not come back to kiss you again.”

Five years and a million miles matter a lot less than Chekov sitting right here with eyes wide and face still bruised where Khan struck him. He gathers Chekov back into his arms and he kisses him.

He intends it as a chaste kiss, a brief brush of his lips to Chekov’s temple or cheek, just enough to remind him that he is alive and Chekov is alive and he still loves him, god he loves him whatever they’ve done, and he needs Chekov to know it, and know that he won’t die alone in the dark. But it’s not enough, not even close, and Chekov clearly knows it too, because he grabs Sulu by the lapels of his uniform and drags him deeper into it, kissing him like he’s drowning and Sulu is his last breath of air.

Chekov kisses sloppy and eager, worrying at Sulu’s lower lip with his teeth and licking his way into his mouth, and Sulu can’t help himself kissing him back. Because Chekov tastes just as sweet as he used to, and the heat burns off his skin even through their uniforms and makes Sulu feel like his blood is boiling, and the sharp urgent sounds Chekov is panting into his mouth are going straight to his dick. He can’t think about anything but Chekov, his skin and his goddamn mouth and the curve of his eyelashes because he always kisses with his eyes shut.

Chekov is straddling his lap, knees digging into the outside of his thighs, and Sulu knows they’ll both regret it in the morning but right now he just wants to get closer. His shirt is shoved up past his chest and Chekov’s broad hands are hard on his back, digging into the bare skin there, before he lowers them to fumble at the fastening of Sulu’s pants. He would do the same, but then he would have to let go of Chekov’s hips and he just can’t do that, he needs to pull Chekov closer as he grinds up desperately against him. He’s been telling his hands to do what they know all his life without any input from his brain, and they’re not listening to his brain now.

When Chekov stills above him he doesn’t notice at first, too caught up in the urgency of the moment, but he notices when Chekov stops kissing him, returning for one brief regretful peck before he pulls away entirely. And he definitely notices when Chekov untangles his hands from Sulu’s shirt and rolls off of him, slumping against the wall beside him and gasping for breath.

“This is terrible idea,” Chekov says when he recovers himself, and Sulu remembers how stress and sex always used to deepen his accent.

Sulu wants to protest, if only because he’s still achingly hard and desperate to get Chekov’s mouth back on his, but he can’t.  He might have let himself forget it, but that doesn’t change that this is something they don’t have between them any more. And asking for it now, after five years, after what Chekov’s been through – he hates himself for thinking of it. He’s not going to do this to Chekov, not again, not now, as much as he wants it.

 “The Captain will be looking for you,” Chekov says wearily.

His smile as he waits for Sulu to stand and leave is genuine, but weak and watery, and there is still something of yearning in his eyes.

Five years ago he didn’t smile as Sulu walked away from him for the last time; he shouted, and threw his communicator at Sulu’s back, and his eyes glittered with unshed tears that made Sulu’s heart ache to think about when anger finally gave way to exhaustion.

It was the only fight they ever had, when Sulu found out that Chekov had accepted a position as First Officer on the _Reliant_ instead of staying at the Academy like they’d planned. It didn’t matter that serving on the _Reliant_ could earn him his own ship in a few years, didn’t matter that he hated being grounded and lived for the yearly training missions to get him back to the stars, all Sulu could think about was five years with a million miles between them, talking through a vidscreen when they got the chance, going home to empty quarters and a cold bed and he couldn’t, he just couldn’t.

Sulu shouted for three hours, got down on his knees and begged, and when Chekov remained stubbornly unmoved started shouting again. And when he knew it was a lost cause he turned his back and walked away.

The first week after they broke up Chekov sent him fifty messages on his PADD, mostly variations of ‘fuck you, you selfish bastard,’ and let his cadets use boxes of Sulu’s clothes for target practice on weapons training day. The second week Chekov programmed the replicators to give him nothing to drink but sauerkraut juice and nothing to eat but singed brussels sprouts and overcooked tripe when he used his meal credits and hacked the atmosphere controls in his reassigned quarters to fluctuate the temperature between Arctic and Saharan. The third week, everyone from Lieutenant Uhura to Admiral Kirk found reason to drop by his quarters and convince him to try and make up with Chekov.

The fourth week he wasn’t really angry anymore, but it didn’t matter. The _Reliant_ had shipped out, and Chekov was half a galaxy away.

Sulu looks at Chekov, sitting shoulders-slumped beside him. He left once; he doesn’t have it in him to leave again. He shifts closer, until he is pressed against Chekov, shoulders and sides and legs touching, and when Chekov looks up at him he covers Chekov’s hand with his, lacing their fingers together, and he smiles at him.

“The Captain doesn’t need me now,” Sulu says, and Chekov smiles back. “I – I hope that you do.”


End file.
